Maybe… maybe Caine just needs a little help to get things going…
He knew firsthand that sometimes, with too much coke or booze, a little blue pill was necessary in order to get romantic.
Another shudder as he surveyed the animals.
What a creepy fucking hobby. Yeesh.
He tapped his foot while he waited. As the seconds melted into minutes, Tobin started to become more and more uncomfortable. The cocaine on the table was tempting, but he was already very high.
Almost too high.
“Caine?” he said softly after five minutes had passed.
Part of the reason why Tobin had gone out in the first place was so that he wouldn’t have to be alone again.
At least I look good. At least—
A flicker of movement to his right, near the stuffed animals caught his attention.
“Caine?” Tobin said again as he rose to his feet. “That you?”
More movement, and Tobin’s heart, which was already racing on account of the drugs, started to beat so fast that it made his body rock.
“What’s—what’s going on? I don’t think—this, oh, I dunno.”
The movement was closer now and Tobin started to get desperate.
“What the—I can’t—”
He’d waited too long to move.
When Caine finally came into focus, it was too late.
The man’s right hand shot up and Tobin saw something that looked like a white rope clutched tightly between his fingers.
“What is this? What the fuck is going on?”
One flick of the wrist, that’s all it took. Like a master wrangler, the loop of rope was instantly looped around Tobin’s neck. He ducked and tried to tear it off, but Caine had other ideas.
The man pulled the rope so tightly that Tobin was forcibly yanked back down onto the couch.
“I’m here, Chad,” the man whispered as Tobin gasped for air and scratched at the ever-tightening noose. The man’s face came into view and he was greeted by a sinister sneer. “I’m here… and this… this is my surprise.”
Chapter 22
Tobin’s first instinct was survival. His second was that this was all just a sex thing. He was no stranger to auto-erotic asphyxiation—when he was younger, he’d pulled a shoelace so tightly around his neck while jerking off that he’d passed out. It was only because of his shitty knot tying ability did he come out of it alive—but if Caine thought that this was sexy, he was wrong.
And when the man dragged him off the couch using just the rope, the idea that this was any kind of foreplay vanished from Tobin’s mind.
This was no game—at least not one in which Tobin was a willing participant.
Wheezing, croaking, he knew that pulling at the rope wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
He had to stop being defensive… he had to go on the offence. But Caine outweighed him by at least thirty pounds and Tobin didn’t carry anything that qualified as a weapon.
His vision started to tunnel and the only sound that he could hear now was his own gasps for air.
I knew something wasn’t right… I knew that Caine wasn’t right…
Tobin stopped clawing at the rope and reached out with his left hand. He cracked his knuckles across the side of the table, and the sound echoed off the many stuffed animals. The sound seemed to startle Caine, and the tension on the rope lessened.
Tobin’s fingers searched for anything on the table that he could use as a weapon. Eventually, they grasped something hard and he picked it up.
That’s when Caine pulled again. Even though Tobin knew that struggling was futile, instinct took over and he released the object. Once again, he desperately tried to force a gap between the coarse rope and the soft skin under his chin.
Hidden well beneath the sound of his blood rushing through his ears, Tobin heard the object he’d grabbed topple and fall to the floor. It smashed, sending a puff of powder into the air as if someone had dropped a glass container of baby powder.
The cocaine… his oxygen-deprived brain shouted incoherently… all that cocaine is ruined!
Spit spraying from between clenched teeth, Tobin tried to catch his breath. As the cloud of cocaine cleared, he caught a glimpse of Caine’s face.
No longer was he a handsome man in his mid-forties. Now, his eyes were dark and wild, his teeth bared like one of the many stuffed animals that were silently watching by the window.
Caine looked older, too—almost ancient. There were heavy lines at the corners of his eyes and around his nose and mouth that hadn’t been there previously.
Tobin had never seen this man before.
If you do nothing, you’re going to die.
As a last-ditch effort, he again reached for the table. This time, instead of trying to grab something on top of it, he grabbed the wood itself. Tobin wasn’t sure what he was hoping to accomplish—it was far too heavy to lift with one hand, let alone use it as a weapon—but desperation had a way of making the impossible seem completely routine.
Predictably, it tilted then toppled, its single pedestal leg slipping from beneath it. The heavy table pitched forward, toward Tobin, and he was unable to get his hands up in time to block it.
Caine pulled and instead of crushing his head, the table only glanced off his brow. Under normal circumstances, this would have simply caused a small bruise, at worse a mild concussion.
But Tobin was recovering from surgery, and this scenario was anything but normal.
As soon as the edge of the wooden table struck his head, Tobin’s entire body shut down. Even his hands and legs went slack.
His lips, which were covered in a white paste and twisted into a pained grimace, suddenly relaxed. The muscles in his neck and throat also became flaccid.
It was this paralysis that ended up saving Tobin Tomlin’s life.
***
Tobin’s body was dragged out of the room by the rope. Even though he continued to drift in and out of consciousness, he was somehow aware that he was being taken to an adjacent room. At some point, Caine abandoned the rope and grabbed him beneath the arms and walked backward.
The man’s hands were strong, rough. Experienced.
This wasn’t the first time he’d brought someone back to his home, to his lair of stuffed wildlife.
And Tobin had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last, either.
Unlike when Kevin had assaulted him at his apartment and when he’d probed his forehead, Tobin’s paralysis went on for so long that the idea of never being able to move again took hold.
But as he was pulled down a hallway and into another room, his foot twitched. Tobin knew better than to try to break free at this point. Not only would he still be weak from… whatever the hell happened… but Caine would easily overpower him. Tobin didn’t know if Caine thought he was unconscious or dead, but the man didn’t seem to care either way.
The man was determined, deliberate.
To what end, Tobin could only imagine.
Rape, murder, torture. Worse.
Without warning, Caine released his grip on Tobin’s armpits. Still unable to control his muscles, his head smacked loudly off the marble floor. Unlike the front of his skull, however, the back was still full thickness and while the impact was enough to send stars shooting across Tobin’s vision, it didn’t cause him to lose control or consciousness.
Tobin resisted the urge to curl up into a ball. Instead, he just lay there, staring blankly at the high ceiling.
Every so often, Caine’s twisted face would come into view. He would look down at Tobin and mutter something incoherent before moving away again.
What the fuck is he doing? What the fuck does he want?
Eventually, Caine’s excursions away from Tobin, or whatever the hell they were, grew longer and longer. When it sounded as if the man had moved back into the hallway, Tobin risked looking around. Just moving his eyes was enough to cause intense pain, as if someone had laid a soldering iron across his forehead.
&
nbsp; His first thought was that a dozen people were staring down at him. He was about to cry out, to beg for their help, but the pain in his head was so great that he couldn’t even open his mouth.
After a few moments, Tobin realized that his efforts would have been wasted, anyway. These weren’t sadistic onlookers. This wasn’t some twisted torture game for rich people. The observers were too still, too smooth and featureless.
What the hell? Mannequins?
It didn’t matter; all that mattered was getting the hell out of there. Tobin tore his gaze away from the strange, humanoid shapes and tried to plan an escape.
Without the luxury of a large wall of sliding glass doors, this room was darker than the first.
Still, he managed to find what he suspected was the doorway from which he’d entered. It was about ten feet behind him.
Ten feet…
All things equal, Tobin could’ve gotten up and ran out of there in a blink of an eye. But he wasn’t sure how his body would respond, if at all.
Caine’s grumblings started to grow loud again, and Tobin let his eyes drift back to a neutral position.
The man came into view again but this time, he seemed to observe Tobin’s body and not his face.
What the hell does he want? Why is he doing this?
Then Caine was gone again. As the man’s heavy footfalls receded, Tobin knew that it was now or never.
He tested his ability to move by first trying to wiggle his toes. Pins and needles traveled upward nearly to his knees, but he saw the tops of his white Chuck Taylors flex.
This was all the confirmation Tobin needed. Trying not to make a sound, which was difficult given how raw his throat felt, he rolled onto his side and then forced his still numb body to a seated position.
“Stay the fuck down!” Caine bellowed.
Tobin’s heart seemed to stop entirely as he looked over his shoulder at the man.
Oh my god…
Caine had stripped out of his clothes and was completely nude save a thick black apron that covered his stomach and genitals. In one hand he clutched a power drill, in the other, a jug of what might have been bleach.
Tobin’s eyes bulged. It was such a bizarre and horrifying image that he went completely still again, even more so than when his forehead had been struck by the edge of the table.
“Stay down!”
The man’s words cut through the fog and Tobin stopped being cautious. He leaped to his feet and started toward the doorway, but his equilibrium was off, and he staggered. Thinking that he was going to fall, Tobin’s arms shot out in front of him. But instead of hitting the ground, they smacked up against one of the mannequins. It was heavier than he’d expected and when it toppled, it took down several others like massive dominoes.
With Caine bellowing incoherently behind him, Tobin’s gaze unexpectedly fell on one of the mannequins that was lying on the ground, face-up, much like he had been moments earlier.
It was… hideous. The face was covered in thick, rope-like stitches and its complexion was mottled and bruised.
What the hell is this, now?
“Get back here!”
Tobin tore his eyes away from the mannequin and ran. He did his best to retrace his steps, heading down the hallway toward the room with the stuffed animals. He could hear Caine behind him, the power drill whirring, the man cursing.
Even fueled by sheer terror, Tobin knew that Caine would catch him eventually. He had to do something to slow the man down.
Who would have thought that the bear wouldn’t be the most frightening thing I saw in this house today?
Tobin grabbed the animal’s outstretched paw and winced at the texture of stiff fur against his palm. Then he pulled, hard, while stepping by the stuffed beast.
The massive animal fell to the ground with a tremendous crash.
He heard Caine shriek but didn’t dare look back to see if it had struck the man. Instead, he kept on pumping his arms and legs until he recognized the front foyer with the dual staircases.
The massive wooden door at the front of the house was closed and for a fleeting moment, Tobin’s heart sunk.
It’s locked… it’s locked with a key. I won’t be able to get out. Caine’ll grab me and he’ll—
To his surprise, the door opened much more easily than he would’ve expected, given its size.
Caine shouted something else now… something coherent for once: a single, chilling word that followed Tobin into the night.
“Submit!”
Chapter 23
“Come on, open the door!” Tobin yelled as he hammered his fist against the wood. “Dr. Cratom! Open the fucking door!”
Everything hurt now, from his head to his throat to his legs. He knew that he should probably go to the hospital, or maybe even the police station, but the cocaine had since worn off and his priority now was dealing with the pain.
“Open up!”
Tobin stepped back from the door and peered upwards. Dr. Alex Cratom’s house was not as large nor as expensive as Caine’s, but it was impressive, none-the-less.
He saw the curtains in an upstairs window sway and just knew that it was Dr. Cratom.
“Get down here!”
Tobin fell silent as he waited. Eventually, he heard the unmistakable sound of someone shuffling down the stairs. Soon thereafter, the deadbolt disengaged and the door opened a quarter inch.
“Dr. Cratom, man, I need something… I’m fucking hurting. I’m hurting everywhere, man. Please. Gimme something,” Tobin said so quickly that there were barely any spaces between his words.
Dr. Alex Cratom stared at him from above the security chain.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I—I—I—I need something. I’m hurting all over, man.”
“Go home,” Dr. Cratom said flatly.
“No, I—you don’t understand. I almost died tonight. This fucking guy… I need something. Please.”
“I warned you, Tobin. I warned you about the surgery and I told you that I don’t want to ever see you again. Did you not understand me? Did you think I was joking?”
Tobin typically backed away from these sorts of conflicts.
But this wasn’t Tobin. It wasn’t even Lucas.
It was Chad, and Chad just got away from some fucking psycho killer.
Chad was getting his fucking meds.
“Look at my fucking neck,” he said, tilting his chin skyward. This made him momentarily dizzy, but the sensation passed. “See that? Now give me some fucking drugs.”
Dr. Cratom sighed.
“Hold on,” he said, his tone soft now. “Just hold on.”
Chad nodded and started to smile when the man closed the door. He waited and listened, and when Dr. Cratom returned this time there was no security chain.
“Good, I just need something. What a fucking night I’ve had. I can’t—”
Dr. Cratom pulled the door all the way open and Chad froze.
The good doctor hadn’t returned with a bottle of pills—Xannies, Percs, Oxy—but a midnight black shotgun.
“What the—”
“I told you I didn’t want to see you again. But no, you fucking entitled prick… first, you come to my work? Now my house? My fucking home?” As he spoke, Dr. Cratom started to raise the shotgun.
Tobin stepped backward and nearly fell down the steps.
“I just need—I—I just need something,” Tobin begged. “I’m hurting everywhere! Everywhere!”
“Not my fucking problem!”
Tobin kept on backing up.
“Please, just—”
“Get the fuck off my property!” Dr. Cratom bellowed.
“Fine!” Tobin shot back, his eyes brimming with tears. “Fucking fine!”
He was on the sidewalk now, but Dr. Cratom had yet to lower his gun.
“Fine!”
Tobin turned and, despite the agony that seemed to grip every one of his neurons in a headlock, started to run. He couldn’t believe ho
w today had started, let alone ended.
All he wanted to do was to go to the club. Have some fun. Meet someone.
Celebrate his new look.
“Fuck!”
Desperate for something to pick up his mood, Tobin took his cell phone out of his pocket as he continued to hurry away from Dr. Cratom’s house.
He wiped his eyes, then stared at his Instagram feed.
“No,” he moaned. “Nooo.”
Anon42819 was back. Trolling.
The man had made a meme of Lucas standing in front of the car. Only, he’d photoshopped out the car and replaced it with a giant black dick.
“Fuck!” Tobin screamed. He squeezed his phone so hard that something inside of it cracked.
Breathing heavily through his mouth, Tobin turned down an alley and caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Now, I’m going to get fucking jumped in a goddamn alley…
But it wasn’t a group of thugs.
It was a large, orange ball of fur.
Tobin stopped and cocked his head to one side as he inspected the animal that was now half tucked behind a dumpster.
It looked exactly like the one he’d seen at Dr. Alex’s Pet Shoppe. The one that had been resting on the woman’s lap, the woman who was staring at him… judging him.
The animal tilted its head and its black eyes—eyes not unlike the marbles that Caine had used to stuff the animals at his house—met Tobin’s.
Only it wasn’t a cat anymore.
It was the accusing stare of his fucking roommate, demanding rent money.
It was Kevin’s smile, cutting through his disgusting orange beard, seen in the side mirror as the Maldrim moving truck pulled away from the curb.
It was Dr. Cratom, yelling at him, screaming that he never wanted to see him again.
It was Jan Dewalter, saying thanks but no thanks.
It was Caine, naked save the apron, the rope wrapped around his hands.
Finally, it was Anon, a skinny little shit wearing a hoodie, typing away on his computer in his parents’ basement.
All of them tearing Tobin Tomlin down, their jealousy as tangible as the cool air filling his lungs.
Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9) Page 9